


Pure Devil

by ex_urna



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angels, Angst, Blasphemy, Demons, Devotion, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Possession
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 08:00:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13585767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ex_urna/pseuds/ex_urna
Summary: "Do not leave me, even if you are a pure devil. Either take me with you, or stay."Sam is seeing things. Or is he?Written after  Чистый бес by Наутилус Помпилиус.





	Pure Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another (though for once written out and hopefully to-be-finished) item inspired by my obscure music tastes.  
> The mood depends on your definition of happiness. Tags to be added as the story is discovered. Maybe even something more cheerful, if one is to believe in miracles.

_"The night bugs were rushing about just by my window,  
And the weight of their wings of hammered metal dragged me along."_

In simplicity there was comfort: the coffee that had long gone cold in the cup needed either finishing or, preferably, a trip down the drain, the window, the washing of which was diligently avoided, required closing sooner rather than later. Articles that beamed at him from the computer screen needed reading. Simplicity was a good solution. Convenient, as long as it managed to get the job done.  
A cup of fresh coffee in hand, Sam discarded the thought of switching the lamp on and sat down to work. It was also a comfort, as far from simple as it was. Sometimes you get to help people - a damn shame that most of the time the only reason they would find a case was a list of recently deceased. Two in one article, one in another, five, two more, three, a head injury, a person in coma. He almost regretted getting to it before six in the morning – then again, he needed to be doing something as insomnia added itself to the list of things he tried not to think about.  
It must have been at least two hours until Dean gets up, and at least an hour more until you may call him awake. However appealing the prospect of spending the time diligently staring at the screen seemed, the feigned image of health and radiance called for a walk. 

The jagged horizon paled, colouring the sky an unwelcoming transparent grey and somehow making the morning chill worse. Sam wrapped his jacket tighter around himself and picked up his pace, heading towards a supermarket he had seen the previous night. Surely, his brother would appreciate some pie for breakfast.  
One thing you learn when your life turns into Hell both metaphorically and literally is that you can not survive and stay relatively sane unless you learn how to distract yourself. It can be work, food, drinking, sex. It can be an argument over listening to the same ten or so songs on repeat, or making sure your brother has his favourite food so that you can watch his blissful expression for a minute, and then bicker some more about stains and breadcrumbs. Moments of instant gratification, a comfort of things being right, at least in some way, at least for somebody.  
A night of no sleep turns the world around sharp and insulting, and yet somehow alien and unfamiliar. Artificial light, shining upon rows and rows of corn syrup-filled confectionery made the pastries themselves look almost uncomfortable. “We do not want to be here either”, - read the label on a brightly coloured box, or so it seemed in a warehouse-like space shared by grim cashiers and a woman in teal pajama pants. Fair enough.  
When it happened again, he almost missed it. His heart racing, senses overwhelmed by a wave of static that would not let any other sound or sight through, it was a miracle Sam managed to stay on his feet, with only a can of soup as a casualty of the attack. The man slowly looked up again, and stared at his own reflection in the polished metal of the shelf. He could not hold back a sigh of relief at the sight of familiar dark circles and cheeks more sunken in than he had remembered them. It had lasted for weeks, and now seemed to spread its metastases into Sam's waking hours, too. He had been carefully avoiding mirrors, afraid to see the pronounced features of the other man. He slept little hoping for his tired mind to shut down into a blessed darkness. He would tell himself the stress and exhaustion made him see things, and knew it was a blatant lie. The truth, of course, was that the pale eyes in front of him stared back. 

The rest of the morning passed without any significant incidents, other than the very motel they were staying in itself turning out to be haunted by a Mr. Stevens, a formidable man of fifty-seven who insisted on performing his duties as a butler nearly a century after the building he happened to pass away in was ruined by a house fire. The situation required little urgent interference, and thus it was decided to start the day with a friendly visit to a local morgue instead. That is why at half past eleven in the morning the brothers found themselves staring at a very large and decidedly very dead man.  
It would not have been enough to say the body was tall. It was enormous. Gargantuan. It dwarfed the room in all its yellowish grey, gaping-mouthed, heartless grandeur. The rather puzzled coroner reasonably suggested the lack of heart, being the only apparent injury, had something to do with the man's untimely passing.  
The question of his identity was solved some two hours later – a time they spent in a diner across the street, Sam carefully avoiding sounding too suspicious as he tried to reassure Dean about his tired looks.  
No matter how much he tried to pretend it was the case, his brother was not as oblivious as he seemed. Harsh and intentionally uncouth, perhaps, still, he was nothing if not watchful. As the silence after yet another reassurance was growing longer, Sam realized it was going to be a problem. There are only so many times one can repeat “I'm fine, Dean”.  
The very worried face of his brother was the first thing he saw after a sharp pain woke him up. It took Sam a moment to understand what was happening – apparently, he fell asleep and had another bad dream. Understatement of the year.  
\- Don't you fucking dare give me another “fine”, - the man hissed, staring demandingly at his brother. - Look, you're gonna talk to me today. We get back to the motel, and you tell me everything.  
And there they were. Not that Sam was not expecting the conversation – but he still hoped to win more time, diligently ignoring the voice of reason that insisted it was clearly neither an issue that goes away on its own nor a talk you can really be ready for.  
Two minutes of cussing at a tap that seemed to have a mind of its own later, Sam raised his eyes at a small mirror above the sink. The stranger in the reflection smiled at him.


End file.
